


Occupied

by hiyoris_scarf



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: Airplane Sex, F/M, Semi-Public Sex, Smut, out of all the ideas I had to write, why this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-29 01:31:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8470444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiyoris_scarf/pseuds/hiyoris_scarf
Summary: MC really, really, really doesn't like airplanes, and Zen decides to change that.





	

“I have, um…a confession to make,” you say in a very small voice.

Zen looks down at you questioningly, and you swallow. Above the urgent airport chatter, a calm female voice announces boarding groups. As Group A inches toward the ramp, you gulp more thickly, struggling with the words in your throat.

“I, uhh. I…”

Zen’s hand at your back is warm and steady. He pulls you toward him, away from the other passengers and a little off to the side.

“What is it?” he asks. He sounds genuinely worried—which makes you feel even worse.

Close to tears, you blurt out:

“I _really_ hate flying!”

During the beat of numb silence, the calm female voice announces: “We are now boarding Group B.”

Your eyes drop from Zen’s frozen face down to your boarding pass, where you see “Group C” stamped in thick, blocky letters. The sight of it fills you with such hollow dread that you think you might as well be looking at your own death sentence. Then, a warm finger firmly tips your chin back up.

Zen is smiling at you; you’re relieved to see he that doesn’t appear to be either amused or annoyed by your phobia.

“But you’ve never flown with _me_ before,” he says—as though that answers any and all of your doubts.

“Do you really think that’ll make a difference?” you ask weakly.

You want to believe him, but your stomach is doing sickening flip-flops at the thought of even setting foot on the boarding ramp.

“Of course it will,” he answers, puffing out his chest to exude utter confidence.

You have no choice but to hope he’s right, because it’s time for Group C to board.

“What do you not like about flying?” Zen asks once you’re seated in the cramped rows. You watch everyone else shove their carry-on bags into overhead storage.

It’s true, Zen’s already making a name for himself as an actor, but it’s still very early in his career—which means, no one is shelling out cash for first-class airfare. You inhale a slow, shaky breath, drawing in the close, tepid scent of the space around you. Travelers’ sweat…leather and canvas…mixed with something much pleasanter and sweeter. You lean toward that last scent, which brings you close to resting your head on Zen’s shoulder.

“Everything, basically,” you sigh, trying not to sound whiny. Zen leans into you so his cheek settles on your hair.

“It’s cramped and dangerous, and I’m surrounded by strangers. My knees ache. Everyone is anxious. Take-off is nauseating, and landing is nail-biting. And…turbulence totally sucks.”

Zen chuckles, and you feel the vibration in your cheek. Across the aisle, a striking, red-haired woman tosses him a sultry look, which he fully ignores. He tilts his head to nuzzle your hair with the tip of his nose.

“Like I said: you’ve never flown with me before. This time will be different, princess.”

He’s silent for a few moments, and you take the opportunity to appreciate his firm, warm presence in contrast to the nervous wreck that you are. A few more minutes pass, and the rest of the passengers settle in.

When Zen speaks again, the vulnerability in his voice catches you off guard.

“I’m really happy you’re coming with me to the location shoot, but you don’t…you don’t _have_ to. You know? I don’t want to feel like I’m dragging you everywhere with me—”

You lift your head up from his shoulder to glare at him, and he cuts off. His crimson eyes are wide and alarmed at your sudden motion.

“You’re not dragging me anywhere,” you declare. There’s an authoritative ring in your voice that surprises both of you. “I _want_ to be with you, Zen.”

You’ve said something similar before, but for some reason you find yourself blushing a bit more this time.

“And…as much as I _hate_ flying…I’d hate it even more to have to say goodbye to you for so long.”

Zen’s lips part slightly, and his eyes go wider. He doesn’t respond. You thread your fingers through his on top of the short armrest.

“You’re right—this time is different,” you say, after a few more seconds. “Because I’m already in my favorite place.”

_Even if that means getting in a flying metal death-box to hurtle thousands of feet into the air._

At your words, Zen’s face lights up with one of those world-shattering smiles. You still can’t quite believe you’re the one to coax that expression from him.

“And where is that, exactly?” he asks.

Now the grin is a little shit-eating—but the look in his eyes is one-hundred-percent adoration. Playfully you pinch his perfect thumb.

“You know.”

Several hours later, when the seatbelt lights blink on and the captain’s voice emanates over the loudspeaker: “Sorry folks, it looks like there’s a bit of turbulence up ahead,” you seriously reconsider whether or not your happy place really includes hurtling to your death in an airborne metal tube.

“Babe…” Zen murmurs sleepily.

You grit your teeth in response. The aircraft gives a few shuddering jolts and you hear yourself whimper helplessly.

“Babe.”

His voice is very kind, but also insistent.

“Babe, you’re making yourself bleed.”

Shocked, you look down at your hands, which are balled into such tight fists in your lap that you’re not sure you can loosen them anymore. Reaching over the armrest, Zen gently uncurls first your left fist, then your right. Sure enough, there are dark, dripping crescents where your nails have dug deeply into your skin.

“This is really hard for you, isn’t it?” he asks, not letting go of your hand. His thumb rubs circles into your bone-white knuckles.

You shake your head stubbornly.

“It’s not so bad.”

The airplane jerks dramatically, throwing you against your seatbelt. The turbulence continues for a few hellish seconds, and when the roughness passes, you find that you’ve practically climbed up Zen’s shoulder. Your fingers have locked themselves resolutely around his upper arm, and you try to release your death grip. But your hands won’t move, and your voice is still cowering somewhere at the back of your throat. It’s a few seconds before you realize you’re hyperventilating, and a few more before you hear Zen talking to you.

“You’re okay. It’s okay. You’re fine.”

He has one arm wrapped securely around your back, between you and the seat, and keeps cooing softly in your ear until you recover enough to speak.

“S-sorry…” you whisper.

He laughs a little, and his arm around you tightens.

“I wish you felt better,” he admits. Then, his lips twitch upward in an odd, secretive smile.

“But…it is a bit strange to see you like this. You’re always so poised and strong. And now here you are—helpless in my arms.”

You stare up at him, your terror temporarily forgotten and replaced with confusion.

“Is that how you see me? Poised and strong?” you ask, before you can stop yourself.

“Of course,” he says—like there’s nothing more obvious.

“But…you had to come rescue me,” you point out.

“You rescued yourself,” Zen corrects, smiling softly. “I was just the getaway car.”

When your forehead crinkles in suspicion, he heaves a half-aggravated sigh. He runs his free hand through his hair and looks away from you.

“I can’t believe you still don’t see that about yourself,” he mutters. “You brought me to my senses when I was at my lowest point—and you did it without even knowing the effect you had on me. You’re so much stronger and wiser than I’ll ever be. And…I hate that I’ll never really deserve you.”

He turns to look back at you. His eyes are much more smolder than they are flame. Something below your stomach shivers.

His voice is very low:

“But…that doesn’t mean I’ll stop trying.”

There seems to be a lot less air in the cabin than before. Your head is spinning.

“Zen—”

“And _that’s_ why—” he cuts you off with a barely concealed smirk, gesturing at your hard grip on his shoulder, “—I said it’s funny to see you like this.”

You swallow, feeling something swoop in your stomach. This time, the sensation isn’t necessarily due to nerves. You’re quite surprised at how breathy your voice is when it comes out.

“Funny…? Is _that_ the word you’d use?”

Zen’s hand curls around your back, his thumb brushing just below your breasts. You bite your lip, holding in a soft noise.

“Maybe ‘funny’ isn’t the term I’m looking for.”

His thumb scoops the underside of your breast over your thin T-shirt.

“More like…irresistible _._ ”

His head dips toward yours, blowing heat over your pulse and sending a wave of shivers down your spine.

“Zen…”

“Do you want to try something?” he interrupts, whispering against the sensitive skin just below your ear.

Your senses are already screaming with anticipation, but a sharp, scolding little voice in the back of your brain won’t stop nagging you: _This is totally inappropriate—it’s an_ airplane _for god’s sake! There are other people inches away!!_

His arm around you tightens as he presses a hot, slow kiss to your jawline. Your brain is struggling to keep up:

But it’s still…totally inappropriate. _Totally._

“Look,” Zen draws away from you slightly, and his other hand reaches into the pocket of the seat in front of him. He pulls out a plastic-wrapped, standard-issue airline blanket. “How convenient is that?”

He sounds positively gleeful. Your stomach tightens with nerves—and something else.

“Um, Zen—”

He quickly unwraps the blanket, spreading it gallantly over your knees and drawing it up to your lower chest. Everything below the blanket suddenly feels a thousand degrees warmer.

“Zen!” you hiss through your teeth.

“What?” he asks, catching you off-guard with his signature kicked-puppy expression.

The innocence in his wide eyes is deeply undermined by the wicked sweep of his fingers as they dive lower, feathering across your stomach and tugging the hem of your shirt up past your bellybutton.

“This. Is not. _The_ _time_.”

Your panicked glance around the rest of the cabin earns another chuckle from him.

“I don’t see why not. You must have missed the memo that all respectable folk should be sound asleep.”

You look around again, and—sure enough—every nearby passenger is deep in apparent slumber, including your righthand neighbor. This discovery doesn’t go particularly far towards reassuring you.

But Zen’s breath, coming faster as he kisses beneath your left ear—is _so_ distracting.

“I can help you forget to be afraid,” he rumbles. And that’s when you feel his left hand inching across the armrest to settle on your upper thigh.

“Um, Z-Zen…”

You’re still trying to sound stern—and failing pretty damn badly.

“All you have to do…” he grazes his teeth over your pulse, “is stay quiet.”

You bite your bottom lip, hard. Zen’s eyes flick to your mouth—his gaze is so intense that you feel burned from it.

He wants this so badly. And you—

You nod.

“Can you be quiet?” he asks, tilting his head up to brush his full lower lip over the shell of your ear.

You nod again, a little more shakily this time.

“Good girl.”

His hand is heavy on your thigh, over your stretchy leggings. His fingers rub circles into your tense leg muscles, and you feel your body become water…which always happens when he touches you. You sigh.

“That’s right. Relax,” he murmurs.

The airplane hits another pocket of turbulence, slinging you both slightly to the right—and Zen’s hand—his hand is—

“Oh!”

He pushes a short half-laugh through his teeth. You stiffen, shoot him a glance, and his smile is sheepish—but also smug.

And a little… _hungry_.

“You’ve been imagining things, haven’t you?” he teases. His fingers curl, pressing into the tight, burning space between your legs. A high wheeze escapes you. _Damn him._

“God…”

You press your legs closer together, but his fingers are against you—over your leggings, applying pressure—but it’s not _enough._

“You’re already so…”

He trails off, sounding a little choked. He kneads a knuckle into you and your back snaps away from the seat. Your fingers clench and unclench on either side of you, and to your left you hear Zen shift a little in his seat. His hand stays still, and you look at him. Your gaze is half-lidded.

“Ah, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” he remarks softly, looking a little flushed. Your gaze flicks down to his crotch.

“If you’re backing out now…” you growl, leaving him quite at liberty to imagine the rest of your threat.

Zen’s surprise is brief, only showing for a second underneath the lust simmering in his eyes. Then, he firmly circles your clit over your clothes. Your nerves erupt—you have to suck your lips between your teeth to keep from crying aloud.

“Don’t worry,” his breath is in your ear again, fast and hot. “I said I’d help you forget to be afraid.”

All your air rushes out of you, leaving your throat as dry and hot as the tail of a comet. Without warning, his right hand pushes your T-shirt up, halfway over your breast, and he cups you over your bra while still working his other hand against you. The rest of the passengers around you are fast asleep, or they would definitely notice the odd shapes and the fast, quivering motions beneath the thin little blanket.

Zen anchors your upper body against the back of the seat again, hand pressed hungrily over the sensitive curve of you. You can’t help writhing a bit, even though he’s still whispering calm, hushing words into your ear.

With the next dig of his hand, the friction against your clit is too delicious—it’s _wrong._ Your knees scrabble against each other. A half-suppressed groan comes out through your teeth as a thin, tortured whine, and Zen senses danger. Withdrawing his hand from your breast, he bends his elbow upward. His hand pushes up past the top of the blanket and finds your mouth, stuffing his fingers into it to stifle your noise.

“Shh,” he pants into your hair. His own breathing is heavy and labored. You suck desperately on his fingers, tilting your head back to sink them more deeply into your mouth.

“Ah—oh god—” Zen mutters when your teeth dig into his knuckles. Your cheeks hollow, and a dribble of saliva escapes from the corner of your mouth. Zen watches its path down your chin in an awestruck daze, and his hand between your legs loses its rhythm. You clench your legs together around his hand.

“Ah—sorry—” he mutters. He drags his fingers heavily over your clothed sex, the friction of his skin working the fabric against your clit. He drags over it again, deeply—shamelessly—and the moisture from your arousal is seeping through both your underwear and your leggings. One more languid stroke, and he surprises the pattern with a quick, light circle around the little bundle of nerves, making your hips jump upward and your teeth clamp around his fingers.

“That’s good?” Zen whispers, right into your ear. You nod frantically, barely able to maintain your silence.

“You have to be good, too. We’re in public,” he says, and you feel his grin against your cheek. You bite his fingers—following it with a deep swirl of your tongue over the indentations—and his breath hitches audibly.

“F-fuck.”

You smirk around his fingers, and he responds by suddenly plunging his hand beneath your clothes. His fingers are hot and rough, and you squirm and shudder. It feels like every drop of blood in your body is waiting for him to move his hand—to make you sing. And then—

“ _Mm—!_ ”

He hisses.

“There you are, babe.”

He strokes you, playing you like the precious instrument you are to him, and every single one of your nerves melts, quivers. One of his fingers dips into you, and everything hot and quick in your body rushes to the point of contact.

You grind your hips into his hand, whimpering against his fingers in your mouth. He pumps you, slowly, and from the corner of your eye you see his hips twitching in a vague echo of your needy motions.

His finger presses deep—your hand stops clutching the armrest and flies down to his, grabbing his wrist—holding the flat of his palm against you so you can rub yourself—

“Oh, hell—”

Zen lets all the air in his lungs out in a rush, and pulls his fingers from your mouth. The sound they make as they slide through your lips is filthy, and your chin is left covered in your own saliva. His other hand still spreads you open beneath your clothes; his fingers curl inside you, until—“AH!”

You suck the rest of your scream into your mouth, and your legs spasm frantically. Panting, you grind your teeth together to keep quiet. “Please,” you hear yourself beg.

Instead Zen pulls his hand away from you. Both of them. This isn’t what you wanted at all.

He quickly pulls your shirt back down and adjusts your leggings before throwing the blanket to the floor.

“Wh-what are—” you stutter, still hot and needy from his touch. Zen interrupts you, his low voice straining:

“Bathroom. Three minutes.”

Staring at him for a second, you understand—and a blush zips from your collarbones up to your scalp. _Oh my god._

Zen waits for you to respond before he stands up, and, finally, you give a quick nod. Before you can say anything else, he is already walking down the row to slip into the nearest bathroom door.

You settle in for the requisite three-minute wait.

Every nerve is singing with anticipation. It’s hard for you to stay still—to not look like every molecule of your body is itching, aching.

Two minutes. Someone a few seats over gives a huge snore, and you bite back the insane giggle threatening to burst out of you. To distract yourself, you slide your arms through the sleeves of the jacket that’s still on your seat. The added warmth only torments you more.

Three minutes. You wonder what Zen is doing in the bathroom. You wonder if his clothes are still on, and you have to grip the armrest at the sudden, wet throb brought on by the thought.

God, have seconds _always_ been this long?!

To your alarm, a woman an aisle over rises to use the bathroom. She opts for the one next to the room where Zen waits, and you breathe a soft sigh of relief.

As soon as she returns to her seat, you decide that you’ve probably waited long enough to look unsuspicious. You slide out of the row and tiptoe down the aisle to the bathroom. Quickly, you unlatch the door, getting yourself safely inside and the door locked before turning around to see Zen’s state.

When you turn to face him, you start to whisper:

“That took _way_ too lo—”

But you can’t finish your sentence before he’s on you like a lion on a weak gazelle—all rough grasping and panting, pinning you against the locked door with the weight of his hot, lean body. His tongue pries open your lips, filling your mouth with him, and his taste, and his want. One of his knees jams itself hard between your legs, and you whimper a sob into his mouth.

He pulls away from the kiss—there’s a sloppy, vulgar noise as his lips part from yours—and buries a hand in your hair to pull it sideways, exposing your neck.

“Yes—you took _way_ too long,” he rasps in agreement. He leans down, sucking a harsh, violently pink hickey onto your throat—one you know your neckline can’t cover.

“For making me wait,” he growls.

His knee grinds into you, and you moan loudly.

“Please…”

“Ye-yeah—” Zen mutters breathlessly.

He fumbles with his zipper, letting go of you enough for you to rip off your leggings. You’ve only got your underwear around one ankle when he seals his lips to your neck again, drawing sparks on your skin with his tongue.

Your knees suddenly stop working, and your back starts sliding down the door, dragging your shirt up with it. Zen lifts you back up by the bottoms of your thighs, pinning you securely against the door with his lower body pressed between your legs. He suckles and drags his teeth over the skin of your shoulder. You’re twitching with emptiness—you need him—it’s not enough, he’s not touching you enough.

“Now—” you gasp, gyrating obscenely against his boxer-clad hips, seeking friction from anywhere—anything—

“R-really?”

His hips jerk against yours, responding to your frantic movement.

“ _Now_ , Zen!”

Your fingers twist in his long hair, yanking. Against your shoulder he barks a short, strained laugh.

“Okay—okay—”

He lets go of you long enough to shove his boxers to the floor, and then he reaches between you—his hips snap forward and up—

“ _OH!”_

Your head falls back against the door with a dull thud. You’re filled—you’re burning up—

The suddenness of him inside you borders on painful, but there’s an edge of unbearable pleasure to the discomfort. Zen doesn’t give you any time to get your breath back. He holds you tightly against him, guiding your legs to wrap around him, and thrusts into you—quick and sharp and desperate—driving high, wanting noises from your lips.

You drag his face back to yours and kiss him again, sucking and biting his bottom lip until he shudders, hard, and groans against your tongue. He crashes his hips into you, and your toes curl from the sparks erupting under your skin.

The door at your back also starts to buckle.

Zen hears the metal complain, and he stumbles backward, away from the loud, groaning door, still gripping you up and against him.

At that moment, the airplane lurches to the right, and he tumbles ass-first onto the cold lid of the toilet, still clutching you tightly under both your knees. He squirms in pain under you and hisses into your neck.

“Ow—cold!”

Your eyes widen in shock.

Then, you start to giggle wildly, stuffing your knuckles into your mouth to mute your snorts of laughter. Feeling Zen’s betrayed gaze on you, you try to get yourself under control. Finally, you manage to straighten your expression enough to smile kindly at him.

“Sorry,” you whisper, apologetically massaging the back of his neck with both hands.

After a few more seconds, you’re more than aware that he’s still rock-hard inside you. Your muscles clench around him—and with that, a demonic smirk slinks onto Zen’s face, quickly replacing his look of mild embarrassment.

“You _will_ be sorry,” he grunts, and abruptly slams his hips into yours. You choke back a scream from the stars bursting behind your eyelids, and slump forward, boneless as he bucks into you. His hands on your thighs press down, grinding you ruthlessly on top of him. His hardness fills you—stretching you past what you can take—

 _“_ Ah—ah! _Fuck!”_ Zen stutters a volley of curses as you tip and swivel your hips toward him, deepening his penetration. “I’m—I might—”

Someone knocks loudly on the bathroom door.

“Hello?” calls a confused voice.

Zen doesn’t stop ramming into you. You can do nothing but cling to his shoulders, his hair, clawing your way back to sanity through the burning pleasure.

“OCCUPIED!” Zen roars—and then he jerks, hips spastically pumping into yours. One of his hands finds its frantic way to your clit and presses, rubs—his length is still twitching and spasming against your walls—until you shriek—until you _die_.

Your senses return to you gradually. All at once, you’re aware that you’re still straddling Zen on the toilet of an airplane cabin bathroom.

Both of you, more than half-naked. Both of you, extremely sweaty.

You look up, and Zen’s eyes are still rolled back in his head. Something about his post-orgasmic haze makes him look even more like a Greek god. You kiss his chest, and he groans weakly.

You giggle.

“…Occupied?”

You’re struck with hilarity while he’s still softening inside you, and the quivers of the laughter throughout your body make him whine.

“Well…we _were_!” he says, cracking an unwilling grin. You yield to your mirth, gasping at the ridiculousness of what you’ve just done and what the likely response will be from the other passengers. Your voice is high with hysteria.

“Oh my god—Zen—”

“I know,” he mumbles. You’re still laughing, trying to keep quiet.

“We just—”

“I _know!”_

“And—you were so _loud_ —”

He comes down from his high, bristling slightly.

“So were you!” he says indignantly.

You reach up, combing your fingers through his hair soothingly, and he rumbles so deeply it’s almost a purr. His head tips back into your hands, and you’re strongly reminded of Elizabeth 3rd. You make sure not to tell him that. Comparisons to cats—particularly cats belonging to Jumin Han—tend to not be met well.

But he was right, after all. You did forget to be afraid.

“Well,” you sigh, petting him, “We need to get out of here.”

Beneath you, Zen shifts.

“Yeah…”

“Are you ready?”

He’s obviously still recovering, and you tickle the back of his neck to rouse him a bit.

“Gimme…a sec…” he mutters. He wraps an arm around your waist and scoots himself up, wincing at the cold metal on his bare skin.

“Ugh—ew—”

There’s a second knock, this one much louder.

“Please, sir and madam, will you vacate the restroom?! There is a line of people out here who actually need to use it!”

The flight attendant’s extremely pissed-off voice comes clearly from the other side of the dented door. A few scrambling seconds later—the bathroom is _ridiculously_ small—both you and Zen are clumsily dressed. You’re half in your own clothes, half in his—and altogether convinced that it makes no difference what you’re wearing at this point.

“Ready?” you ask again, watching Zen try to pull your jacket on haphazardly over his own long-sleeved shirt. He realizes what he’s doing and hands you the jacket, which you quickly shove your arms through.

When your hands emerge from the jacket’s sleeves, something touches your fingers. You look down. Zen grasps your hand firmly, linking the two of you together between your bodies.

You look up at him in brief surprise, meeting his soft, still angelically sleepy gaze. Zen laughs at your expression, then lightly kisses the top of your head, smoothing out your tangled hair with his other hand.

“Yep.”

He pulls back, and his hand squeezes yours.

“Ready now.”

**Author's Note:**

> *douses myself in holy water*
> 
> ANYWAY
> 
> hopeyoulikeditseeyoulaterbye~


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